


Shattered In Time

by Guaca_molly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Dom/sub, F/M, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hogwarts(1945), Horcruxes, Jealousy, M/M, Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, No use of y/n, Not Canon Compliant, Oops, Possesive Tom Riddle, Possessive Behavior, Sane Tom Riddle, Secrets, Slightly sane, Slug Club, Slytherins aren't all bad, Smut, You and Harry and Draco accidentally go back in time, You're in Seventh Year, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26254885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guaca_molly/pseuds/Guaca_molly
Relationships: Harry Potter & Reader & Draco Malfoy are Bffs, Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy, Minor Abraxas Malfoy/Reader, Tom Riddle | Voldemort/Reader, Tom Riddle/Reader
Comments: 57
Kudos: 213
Collections: Harry Potter fics





	1. Chapter 1

You were not a violent person.

Shortly after arriving at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you had been sorted into House Hufflepuff—a place for the loyal and the hardworking, and those special few who didn’t fit within the confines of the other three houses. Over the years, due to your kindhearted nature, you had made many friends; ranging from fearless Gryffindors like Neville and Ginny to cunning Slytherins like Millicent and Blaise. Because of your many companions, you were known throughout the school for being one of the most accepting students in your year. You were patient and caring and…

And you were _not_ a violent person.

But you were quite certain you were going to throttle Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

“Fools,” you hissed at the couple who were staring at you guiltily, both their cheeks flushed bright scarlet. You’d stumbled upon the two while entering the prefects’ bathroom and had briefly caught a glimpse of them engaging in rather _intimate_ activities before quickly slapping a hand over your eyes. When Draco had noticed you, he’d lashed out in a fit of embarrassment or whatnot and had knocked you to the ground, spilling the contents of your satchel on the bathing room’s tiled floor. “You bloody fools.”

You rose to your knees, scowling at both yourself and the boys. The prefects’ bathroom? _Really?_ If they truly wanted their relationship to remain a secret, they would have to be ten times more inconspicuous. Your treacherous fingers itched to hex them for their irresponsibility. Instead, you reminded yourself that it’d been partially your fault as well. You should’ve knocked or at least hollered to see if anyone else was inside, but you’d been preoccupied with humming a tune from one of your favorite muggle films and had neglected those formalities.

Muttering to yourself, you adjusted your skirt began collecting your things from the floor.

“Sorry angel face,” Draco said from where he stood by the mirrors, running a hand through his annoyingly perfect blond hair. Merlin, he’d just been snogging and he looked that damned good? His looks were infuriating— _he_ was infuriating. Especially when he called you angel face; a nickname he’d given you when you’d first encountered him and his pureblood _posse_ , Crabbe and Goyle, on the Hogwarts Express. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people, Hufflepuff.”

“And _you_ shouldn’t suck each other’s faces in a communal space,” you replied with a sneer that held no real vehemence, grabbing your potions textbook and shoving it into your satchel, relieved to find that the spine hadn’t been broken. If there was anything you cared for more than your many friends and acquaintances, it was your books. And perhaps your familiar, a fat toad named Bean. “You two are no better than horny fifth years.”

The Boy Who Lived coughed into his elbow, flushing until his olive skin was the same color as his disheveled tie. Draco, blatantly amused by his boyfriend’s sudden shyness, handed Harry his glasses with a not-so-subtle smirk.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. _Boys_...

Of course, this was nothing unusual. You were acclimated to their nonsense. As one of the few people who had discovered the truth of their romantic endeavors—one of the few that they hadn’t opted to Obliviate—you were entrusted in the covering up of their whereabouts whenever they wanted to...canoodle in the broom closets and bathrooms. Only last week, you’d lied to bloody professor Slughorn when he’d asked you where his star pupil of the year, Harry James Potter, was.

In your humble opinion, you were, by far, the best third-wheel to ever exist.

“We should get to Divination,” you said as you stood, slinging your unbearably heavy satchel over your shoulder. Maybe you should’ve left some of your less important books in your dorm this morning...You knew that if Hermione was here and if she possessed the ability of a Legilimens, she would’ve told you that there was no such thing as a ‘ _less important_ ’ book, thank you very much.

Harry nodded. “Trelawney might try to tell me about my doomed future if I show up late,” he said, smiling as he toyed with the hem of his robes. “How do I look?”

“Absolutely horrid,” Draco teased.

“Wonderful,” you said at the same time, shooting Malfoy a scalding glare. It was true, Harry did look wonderful. Green eyes, scar, brown curls, olive skin—you’d always thought him to be one of the most attractive boys in your year, even if he was a bit too short for your tastes. When you were younger and pitifully oblivious that you weren’t his type due to your...lack of certain parts, you had been helplessly in love with Harry. Wasn’t everyone? Even Cedric Diggory had been enamored with The Boy Who Lived before…well before...

“Come on,” you said, ignoring the bitter ache in your chest—an ache that had been there ever since the damned Triwizard Tournament. Swallowing hard as you spun on your heels, you started to walk towards the bathroom’s exit. “We’d best get going.”

You stalled in the doorway when Harry called your name, voice bordering on a tentative whisper. Mouth open to form a question, you turned around, words dying on lips when you saw him pointing at the place where your things had been moments ago, his brow creased with worry.

You glanced down to where he was gesturing, slapping a hand over your mouth to stifle your horrified gasp.

“What is that?” Draco asked.

Oh, no. _Oh, no, no, no._

On the floor, shattered in at least three pieces, lay the Time-Turner.

Ignoring Draco’s questioning, you rushed over to the item and gathered up the golden shards in your shaking hands. No, no, no.

“Oh, Merlin’s beard,” you exclaimed, examining the broken necklace. One of your books must’ve landed on it when everything had fallen from your bag. Or maybe you had landed on it yourself...It hardly mattered now, did it? God, this was bad. The Time-Turner—the bloody _Time-Turner_ that Hermione Granger, your closest female friend, had trusted you to keep safe ever since third year. The Time-Turner that you had kept hidden in your dorm for as long as you could remember… And this morning, you had foolishly decided to take it to class with you, and now…

Tears of frustration pricked at your eyes.

“What is that?” Draco repeated, concerned.

Harry’s voice sounded so far, so distant as he explained to his boyfriend what the object in your hands was. You wanted to help. Wanted to say something. But you were frozen, stuck in a trance—unable to pull your blurry eyes away from the golden pieces in your palms that looked even shinier against your dull skin. This was your job. _Keep this safe_ , that’s what Hermione had said to you, _protect it from harm. It may be useful in the future. Or the past._

And you had failed—failed Mione and your promise to her, failed your vow to keep secrets and protect them, failed anyone who may need the ability to travel through time in the near future. All because you had seen the golden, dust-covered object in your bedside drawer earlier this morning, and had wondered, stupidly, if perhaps it needed to be used every once and a while to maintain its powers. A wonder you were going to have answered after your classes when you visited the library. Because, when in doubt, go to the library.

Foolish. You were so fucking _foolish_.

A single tear fell down your face. You didn’t bother to wipe it away.

Someone placed a hand on your shoulder. A red tie flashed in your peripheral vision as Harry said, “Hermione won’t be mad. It’s been so long since she gave it to you—I’ll bet five Galleons that she’s forgotten all about the Time-Turner.”

You were no Ravenclaw, but you were clever enough to know that Harry was lying to comfort you. Hermione would’ve never forgotten about something so important, it just wasn’t in her blood. Still, a small part of you was grateful for Harry’s weak, but heartfelt reassurance. So, you humored him and asked, “You really think so?”

Harry smiled. “Yeah. I really do.”

You fisted your hand around the Time-Turner’s shards, standing as you swiped at your face with the backside of your palm. You glanced at Draco, who was looking rather out of place and half-informed across the room.

“Do you know any spells that could fix it?” you asked the Malfoy heir, who was known to be the second smartest student in your year. If anyone could repair the magical device, it’d be him. Or Hermione, but you weren’t quite ready to face her and admit to having broken it yet.

Draco shook his head and gave you a pitying smile. Your stomach churned with mild disappointment as he replied solemnly, “I know a few repairing spells, but I don’t think any of them would work on an enchanted object. Sorry, angel face.”

You sniffed. “No, it’s alright. I’m sure Mione knows how. She’s bloody brilliant,” you said. Ever the eccedentesiast, you gave them both a lopsided grin and went on, “Right, then. We’d better get to class.”

They followed you out into the corridor but didn’t speak. They knew better than to converse with you right now, knew better than to test your renowned patience. You weren’t mad at either of them, of course. Only infinitely ashamed in yourself. But Draco didn’t know that, he couldn’t read your bloody mind—behind you, his guilt was tangible.

You didn’t have the energy to assure him that this wasn’t his fault.

As you walked further, you noted that there weren’t any other students in the corridors. You must’ve been really late, then, if everyone else was already in class. Great, now Trelawney would _definitely_ try to tell the class about Harry’s ever-present _Grim_. You glanced out a window, frowning when you saw that it was rather dark out. Had it been that cloudy when you’d entered the prefects’ bathroom? You couldn’t remember if a storm was expected for today.

“Say, Hufflepuff...” Draco started, “Where is everyone?”

“Class,” you said, glancing around the empty, darkened corridors. Your answer sounded more like a question than you intended.

“Something’s wrong,” Harry whispered. At some point, you had all stopped walking and were now standing, frozen in the middle of the corridor. “I can feel it.”

Harry was right; you could feel it too. The air crackled with something...peculiar. The skin on your arms prickled and oddly, in a school that had been your home for many years, you felt out of place. Like you didn’t belong.

You hadn’t felt so lost since you were in a muggle preschool, unable to make friends because you were weird and had accidentally caused your teacher’s nose to turn a lovely shade of blue. _She’d deserved it_ , you reminded yourself. For not letting you play on the swings during lunch.

“We should—”

The sound of soft, even footfalls filled the disturbingly quiet corridors. You cut yourself off and listened as the steps neared, followed closely by melodious humming.

 _Professor Dumbledore_ , you realized.

“Headmaster!” Harry called as the wizard rounded the corner, having recognized the humming as well. He sounded just as relieved as you felt to see another living person. You and Draco trailed after The Boy Who Lived as he ran to the professor. “Dumbledore! We couldn’t find anyone. I-I thought maybe—”

Harry trailed off, taking a small step back as you reached his side. You followed his frown to Dumbledore, who was staring at the three of you as if you had each grown two heads. Was he upset that you weren’t in class? What…?

“Headmaster,” Dumbledore repeated, tilting his head. He ran a hand through his silver beard that seemed, strangely enough, a lot shorter than it had been at the feast yesterday evening. Even his half-moon spectacles looked different, _newer_. “I’m sorry,” the wizard said, eyes shining with something you didn’t quite understand, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Who, might I ask, are you three?”

Your jaw hit the floor and, for a moment, you felt as if your tongue had turned to lead in your mouth.

_I don’t believe we’ve met._

You might’ve understood if it had just been you—you weren’t that exceptional in any of your classes, you weren’t a Gryffindor, and you had been called plain and unnoticeable a few times by Pansy Parkinson. But you were with Harry and Draco, whom Dumbledore would _never_ forget.

You looked the professor over again. It was undeniably him—the revered Headmaster whose eyes had twinkled during every speech he’d given over the years you’d attended Hogwarts, but something was...off. His robes were bright and colorful per usual, but they seemed to be in a different style than you were accustomed to seeing him in. His face also seemed less wrinkled, less aged.

Harry gasped.

The Time-Turner’s shards dug into your palm.

You swallowed. “Professor…” you started. It was far-fetched. So damned _far-fetched_ , this idea running through your mind. Inhaling, you asked hesitantly, “What-what year is it?”

The wizard blinked, his eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling as he replied, “Why, it’s August 31st, 1945.”

Your heart gave a horrible jolt.

 _Impossible_.

The Time-Turner was broken. It couldn’t have brought you back in time unless...unless it had spun whilst falling from your satchel.

Suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

_Impossible._

Harry let out a string of curses, staggering.

Draco fainted, muttering something like ‘ _my father will hear about this_ ’ as he fell.


	2. Chapter 2

Time travel, you learned, was awfully draining.

At first, you’d assumed Draco had fainted from shock, but after you and Harry had dragged him to the hospital wing on Dumbledore’s strict orders, you learned from the school’s matron—a young woman with wild, red hair called Miss Smith who was most definitely not Madame Pomfrey—that he was suffering from severe sleep deprivation. All three of you were, according to her, near death from exhaustion.

Which made absolutely no sense. But none of it did, anyway.

You raised your knees to your chest, glancing at Draco and Harry’s sleeping forms in the two cots across from your own, separated by a thin blue cloth. Much to Harry’s chagrin, Miss Smith had given them both a herbal tonic to keep them asleep until their bodies were well-rested enough to be safely functional. She had offered it to you as well, but you’d politely declined, even after she’d told multiple times that it’d help you recover.

One of you needed to be awake when Dumbledore returned to the hospital wing with the Headmaster of this time, Armando Dippet. One of you needed to be conscious enough to answer the inevitable onslaught of questions: _Who are you? How did you get here? Why on earth do you have Hogwarts uniforms if you aren’t students? How come you didn't know what year it was?_

Of course, you couldn’t bloody well tell them the truth, could you? The mere notion that you were fifty years in the past seemed positively mad, even to you. You could almost picture the Headmaster’s face if you told him the truth. He’d probably be befuddled for a few moments, then he’d likely send you to St. Mungos to get your head checked. And even if, in the slightest chance, he believed you, there would still be no way for you, Draco, and Harry to get home. The Time-Turner was still broken, its shards hidden in the lint-filled pocket of your cloak.

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed.

So no, you couldn't possibly tell the truth. Which meant once again, you’d have to lie. Being dishonest was not your favorite thing, but you had to admit that you were rather skilled at it. Word of Draco and Harry’s relationship would’ve been in the Daily Prophet months ago had you not been around to protect them from that pest of a writer, Rita Skeeter—a feat in which you were exceedingly proud of.

Sighing, you fell back on your cot and began fabricating your story with the little information you knew of this time. The 1940s were harrowing years for both wizards and muggles, you recalled. The wizarding world was dealing with a man considered to be among one of the most dangerous and sadistic dark wizards of all time: Gellert Grindelwald. And the muggles were dealing with the aftermath of an immoral dictator of their own: Adolf Hitler. How unfortunate could you be to have landed yourself in one of the most unsafe decades for muggle-borns? How on earth were you going to get both Harry and Draco home safe without a functioning Time-Turner?

At some point during your plotting and scheming, you began to drift off on your own accord. Your eyes fluttered as you stared up at the hospital wing’s vaulted ceiling, and briefly, you were reminded of the day you’d woken up here, in another time, after having a one-on-one staring contest with a basilisk.

On the verge of sleep, you were struck with the sickening realization that Salazar Slytherin’s murderous beast hadn’t been killed yet—it was still hidden in the school, alive and well.

What you didn’t realize, however, was that its master was here too.

* * *

Armando Dippet proved to be a gullible man. Kind, friendly, and cheerful, but immensely _gullible_. All it took to win over the senile Headmaster was a few tears, a shaky hand, and a blink or two of your best doe-eyes. He was so easy to manipulate, so concerned for each of your wellbeings—a small part of you felt guilty because of how sincere the man seemed. The larger, more rational, part of you shoved the guilt down. You needed to get home and, morals be damned, you needed this man to believe your every word if you were going to do so.

“Now, now, dearie,” Dippet cooed from his seat beside your cot, placing a wrinkled hand on your shoulder as you sniffled and blubbered. Dumbledore’s predecessor wore dark robes and a pointed hat over his shiny grey hair. He looked just as you remembered him from his portrait in the modern-day Headmaster’s office. “Don’t cry. There’s no need to exert yourself, child,” he said, handing you a tissue. “You can talk to us whenever you’re ready.”

You sniffed. “I—I don’t know where to begin…”

From across the room, Dumbledore cleared his throat. He hadn’t spoken since he’d strolled into the hospital wing with Dippet on his heels.

“Start with the simplest thing,” he said, looking at Harry and Draco, then back to you. Luckily, the boys were both still fast asleep. You didn’t need them to wake up and contradict the story you’d fabricated. “What is your name?”

Smiling your most Hufflepuff of smiles, you introduced yourself. That was the one thing you didn’t need to lie about, though you’d thoroughly considered the dangers of having a muggle surname in 1945. Blood prejudice was far more potent at this time, but you’d rather be called a _mudblood_ than pretend to be someone other than yourself. If either of them picked up on your non-magical heritage, they hid it well.

“It is an utmost pleasure to meet you, dearie,” Dippet said, beaming. Once again, you had to remind yourself that feeling guilty was pointless. “Now, I know you’re a bit emotional right now and you’d probably prefer to be sleeping than talking to us old buggers, but we simply cannot leave until you tell us how you got here.” He smiled brightly as if he wasn’t interrogating you. “Hogwarts had wards, you see. No one should be able to get in.”

“I—I don’t know how we got in, Headmaster,” you whispered, playing the dumb, oblivious girl. “We heard that Hogwarts was the safest place to be. All the papers say that you’ve doubled security,” you said, fiddling with your fingers. You blinked up at Dumbledore, knowing he’d be the hardest to sway. “My friends and I are refugees, you see. Fleeing the muggle war and... _Grindelwald_.”

For a moment, there was only silence.

Your stomach churned and you wondered, from the look of absolute shock on Dumbledore’s face, if you’d somehow messed up the timeline. Did your story make sense at all? Oh Merlin’s beard, you’d been so sure…

Then, from beside you, Dippet sighed and his face crumpled with what you could only describe as heartfelt pity as he said, “Oh, you poor, poor children. How dreadful…”

“How dreadful indeed,” Dumbledore said, rubbing his chin. He frowned. “But how did—”

“We found these uniforms at the small village down the way,” interrupted another voice. Harry must’ve woken at some point and was now sitting up on his elbows, squinting. His glasses lay uselessly in his lap. “It’s called Hag—no. Hegmas?"

“Hogsmeade, I believe,” you corrected, playing along with The Boy Who Lived. You had almost forgotten that the three of you were wearing your school uniforms—which didn’t fit in with your story at all. You could only pray that your modern, 1997 uniforms weren’t too different from the ones that Gladrags Wizardwear currently sold.

Harry turned to Dippet. “I’m Harry”—he paused—“Harry Evans.”

You clenched your teeth, heart aching for your friend. You didn’t know much about his mother, Lily Evans, other than the tragedy of Potter’s family. You were glad, even though it must’ve pained him to use her maiden name, that he knew better than to use his father’s surname. The Potters were a well known, well respected pureblood family; for all you knew, there might’ve been one or two attending the school at this time.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Evans,” said Dippet. If you hadn’t been paying attention, you wouldn’t have seen the flash of grief in Harry’s green eyes. Oh, Harry…

“Headmaster Dippet, Sir,” you started, pulling his attention away from your friend. “We have nowhere to go; our parents, our families, they’re all”—you let out a sob to garner a little more sympathy—“they’re all gone, Sir. We heard that Hogwarts was the safest place for children like us. For seventeen-year-old orphans. I— _we_ didn’t know where else to go.”

“There, there, child,” Dippet whispered, drawing up your blankets like a concerned parent would for a sick child. The old Headmaster rounded on Dumbeldore and sighed. “Oh, Albus. We can’t just send them away now, can we?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling for the first time since he’d stepped into the room, “We can’t.”

Dippet nodded and stood. “I know you may not want to think about schooling at this moment,” he said, “but Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is one of the most esteemed learning facilities for wizarding children in the world. And, whether you wish to stay or not, there is a place for each of you here. You are welcome—as guests or as students.”

“Students!” you gasped. If there was a place you could find out how to fix a broken Time-Turner, it’d be the Hogwarts library. This was it, this was your ticket home. You inhaled deeply and repeated calmly, “Students. We’d all like to accept the invitation to be students here, Sir. Thank you”

Dumbledore frowned but remained quiet.

“You’re in luck, then,” the Headmaster exclaimed.

“How so?” you asked.

“Why, it’s August 31st! The start-of-term feast is tomorrow. And the sorting ceremony! You do know what that is, don’t you? It’s quite fascinating, actually. You see, the first years—”

“With all due respect, Sir,” Harry interrupted, “I think my friends and I could use a little more sleep.”

Though you were feeling quite worn yourself, you shot Harry a discreet glare. You wanted to remind him that you were all on thin ice; that if you made even one mistake, your deranged truth might be revealed. How on earth could he be so foolishly rude? _How?_

You pressed your lips together and smiled thinly at the older wizards, ready to apologize for your friend’s unpleasant dismissal—Dippet beat you to it.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” the Headmaster muttered like a scorned child, flushing. If you hadn’t known better, you would’ve thought he was a boy stuck in the body of an old man. “Come along, Albus. We shan’t bother them all night.”

Dippet exited the room and promised you and Harry that he’d send new uniforms here for each of you in the morning. Dumbledore followed at a slower pace, casting a glance over his shoulder with a muted smile.

“Sweet dreams,” he said with a wink. Then, as if it were a last-minute thought, he added quietly, “Time is a very dangerous thing when wrongfully meddled with.”

And then he was gone, leaving the two of you to listen to Draco’s snores and gape at the doorway where the wizard had previously stood.

_Oh, for goodness’ sake…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending virtual hugs,
> 
> Molly


	3. Chapter 3

“I am _not_ changing my bloody name!”

You rolled your eyes at Draco. The blond had been a bit... _inconsolable_ ever since he’d woken up a few minutes ago, muttering something about how he’d had the most unusual dream. After you and Harry had grimly informed him that this was, in fact, _not_ a dream, you had done your best to quickly fill him in on the basics of your diabolical scheming: you were all stuck in 1945, you were going to attend Hogwarts and hopefully find a book that’d help you get home, and you were pretending to be orphaned refugees fleeing the war.

He’d taken most of it relatively well until you’d told him that he couldn’t be called Draco _Malfoy_ in this time. It seemed that you’d, inadvertently, bruised his rather large Pureblood ego.

“You must,” Harry said, taking a seat on the edge of Draco’s cot. “I’m going to be called Evans, alright?” he explained, then nodded in your direction. “She doesn’t have to change her name ‘cause she doesn’t have any relatives who’ve gone to Hogwarts.”

Draco went pink in the face. “I’m Malfoy—Draco Malfoy,” he stated resolutely. For a brief moment, he looked as if he was going to huff and stomp like a three-year-old who’d just been told by his parents that he couldn’t get the new broomstick he’d seen in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. “And I’ll be a Malfoy until the day I die.”

“Or until the day you get married,” Harry muttered, fixing his glasses.

“Proposing, are you, Potter?” Draco spat, crossing his arms. The tips of his ears reddened.

“Would you say yes if I was, _Ferret_?”

“In your dr—”

“Enough!” you shouted, sliding out of your place to stand at the end of Draco’s cot. Your cheeks flushed; you always felt like an intruder whenever they got caught up in their discourteous flirting methods—they often joked about things you didn’t quite understand, nor desired to. “ _Enough_ ,” you repeated. “You can bicker on your own time. Right now, we have more pressing matters to discuss.”

When both the boys remained silent, you turned to Malfoy and sighed. “Look, Draco, your familial loyalty is admirable, but you’re being ridiculous,” you said. “Be reasonable; search your memories—we’re in _1945_. Do you happen to have any relatives who went to school this year?”

He thought for a prolonged moment before he said woefully, “My grandfather, Abraxas. He was at Hogwarts from thirty-eight to forty-five.” Draco frowned. “My grandmother, too. But she wouldn’t be a Malfoy yet.”

“See?” Harry said, “You can’t possibly go by your real name if they’re here—your grandfather doesn’t even know who you are, he’d think you were bloody mad if you paraded around calling yourself a Malfoy.”

Draco’s shoulders slumped and with every breath he took, you could see him yielding to your proposition. “Fine, fine,” he huffed. “What do you suggest I go by, then?”

You exchanged a glance with Harry. “Well, we were thinking,” you began hesitantly, “that you could be called... _Granger_.”

Draco started. “You want me to use that mud—” He cut himself off at the warning looks he received from both you and Harry. Draco had long vowed to stop judging people for their blood purity, but he was still adapting. Still learning. “You want me to use a _muggle_ name?”

“It’s for your own good,” you said.

“But—”

“Do you have any other ideas?” Harry asked.

Silence was Draco’s only response. You took it as a hard no.

“Right,” you clasped your hands together, “we’re all in agreement, then? For the time being, you’re Harry Evans and you’re Draco Granger.” Neither of them spoke up or protested so you took it as a sign to continue.“While we’re here looking for a way home, we need to stay low—out of sight. We shouldn’t draw too much attention to ourselves. Draco, I suggest you avoid your grandfather just in case you two happen to share a noticeable resemblance.”

Draco nodded, leaning back. “I’ll stay away from my grandfather…” He trailed off, freezing. The color drained from his face. Were his hands shaking? “ _My grandfather_. Oh, Merlin’s beard. He—he...”

“What?” Harry prompted, grabbing Draco’s fingers. He must’ve noticed the shaking as well.

“Go on, Draco,” you whispered, unable to conceal your worry.

Draco’s eyes glazed with terror as he said, “Abraxas Malfoy went to school with _Tom Riddle_.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Isn’t that—”

“Voldemort,” Harry said. He pulled away from Draco, hands slowly drifting to the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. “Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort.”

* * *

_Voldemort._

His name haunted you that night—kept you on the brink of sleep for seemingly endless hours, tossing and turning in the dark until you were so exhausted you could’ve wept. Questions ran rampant through your weary mind. Would you be attending school with the Dark Lord? Or would you be attending school with the boy who had yet to become him? _Voldemort, Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin_ —murderer.

Harry was seated near one of the windows, hugging his knees to his chest. Unlike you, he hadn’t even tried to get any sleep. You both knew it would evade him. How does one rest comfortably after discovering they were currently in the same time as their parents’ killer? His tears shone like Puffapod beans in the moonlight.

On the other side of the room, Draco was curled up on his side, staring at the wall across from his cot. Empty eyes, greenish skin, chapped lips—he didn’t seem to be taking this any better than the Chosen One. His moon-white fingers were wrapped tightly around his inner left forearm, where you could only assume he bore the Dark Mark.

Under the thin hospital blanket, your grip tightened on your wand.

For many years, it had been the only constant in your life; it had never failed you. The wand was finely built; Laurelwood engraved with small vines and flowers, dragon heartstring, 12 ¾”, surprising flexibility. Ever since the day that Ollivander had informed you that it was indeed _yours_ , you had treated it with the reverence that one might reserve for the Queen’s crown. At eleven, getting a wand had been your first glimpse at the marvelous Wizarding world, at what you could become. It was your hope—your strength.

And, for your friends, you needed hope and strength now more than ever.

* * *

You awoke just before dawn, tired, achy, and shivering under the thin blanket, to find a bundle of robes at the foot of your cot. Unfurling yourself from the minimal comfort of the hospital wing’s bed, you quickly donned the new clothes: a black cloak with silver fastening, a white undershirt, a light-grey jumper, and a too-long skirt that you would most definitely roll up later. You opted not to put on the black pointed hat because it looked a bit too large for your head, and well, it was rather _hideous_.

It felt...odd to be wearing Hogwarts robes that lacked Hufflepuff’s familiar yellow and black colors. Like wearing someone else’s skin.

As you fixed your hair with the small mirror you’d found tucked with your robes, you reminded yourself that you _were_ going to be wearing someone else’s skin, in a sense. You weren’t really a war orphan, but someone out there was. To protect yourself and your friends, you would hide behind a facade; perhaps for the first time in your life, you could pretend not to be friendly.

Once finished readying yourself, you glanced around the room.

Harry was up too, sluggishly pulling on his new robes. His glasses did nothing to hide the shadowed circles beneath his eyes—you knew a spell that could’ve easily gotten rid of them, you’d used it many times over the years to conceal your blemishes and eye bags, but you doubted he’d be so vain as to care about his appearance right now.

Across the room, Draco was, unsurprisingly, still fast asleep. Snoring loudly, too. Merlin’s beard, how did Harry deal with his boyfriend sounding like a motorized car engine all night? You noticed, with no small amount of satisfaction, that his usually perfect blond hair was unkempt and tangled from his restless sleep.

“Draco,” you called, walking to his side. “It’s time to get up.”

He rolled over, smacking his lips. “Leave me be, Winky,” he moaned into his pillow, “Five more minutes.”

“Get up,” you repeated, a bit offended. You were _not_ a house-elf, thank you very much. “Up!”

A loud snore.

Harry managed a quiet chuckle. He’d probably dealt with sleepy Draco many times himself.

“Alright, then,” you huffed before grabbing the edge of Draco’s blanket and yanking it off his body with a quick tug. Startled, he bolted up with a yelp, frantically searching the room as if he were being threatened at wand-point.

His eyes narrowed on you. “Blimey, woman,” he spat, patting his hair. When you smiled at him, his lips pulled down into a displeased scowl. “My father—”

“Will hear about this?” you finished for him, crossing your arms. “We know.”

Ten minutes later, once all three of you were properly dressed and relatively put together, you found yourself standing in front of the Great Hall’s ornately carved doors, hovering near the back of a large group of buzzing first years. And even though you were in 1945, even though a wicked murderer was beyond those doors, you found yourself grinning fondly as Dumbeldore arrived and began explaining the house points and rule-breaking to the new students.

Bright-eyed, oblivious, and excited—the eleven-year-olds reminded you of the girl you’d once been.

“The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly,” Dumbeldore finished, slipping into the great-hall with a wink in your direction. As soon as he was gone, the first years broke out into chatter. Many curious glances were cast at you and your friends, to which you responded with meek smiles—but it was nearly impossible to act as if you were alright, to act as if you weren’t petrified of walking through those doors.

Pretend, lie, facade. . .Your hands began to shake.

_The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly._

Pretend, lie, facade. . .

Your mouth moved on its own accord. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

The first years couldn’t hear you over their bustling about, but Draco heard and replied quietly from your left side, “Me too.”

On your right, Harry whispered, “We just...need to be brave.”

“Spare me your Gryffindor platitudes,” Draco said. “We need to be _smart_ , not idiotically heroic.”

“What we need,” you started, meeting both of their gazes, “is to be placed in a House that is not Slytherin.”

Draco squared his shoulders. “I can’t make any promises. It’s in my blood, you know?”

You frowned. The three of you had discussed this before leaving the hospital wing: you needed to be as far away from Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy as you could be. Which meant not being placed in their House. “Draco pl—”

You cut yourself off when Harry made a sound resembling a hiss of pain.

“Are you alright?” you asked him, reaching for his arm.

He stepped out of your reach, nodding. “Yeah. I’m fine,” he said, wincing.

“Bullshit,” Draco accused. The blond’s eyes revealed that he was equally as concerned as you. “Your scar’s hurting, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded, but he wasn’t looking at you or Draco. He was staring past the first years, at the Great Hall’s doors, his gaze so intense it seemed as if he was looking right through the wood. “He’s in there,” Harry said, clenching his jaw, “It’s him.”

 _Voldemort, Tom Riddle, Heir of Slytherin_ —murderer.

You swallowed, unable to muster up any comforting words. What could you possibly say? _My sympathies Harry, I’m sorry that the creature who tried to murder you in your crib is sitting in that room and you can do nothing about it._

The first years went silent. You looked up to find that Dumbledore had returned. Your heart jolted—too soon, too fast. You weren’t ready, you weren’t ever going to be ready.

“The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin,” Dumbeldore informed the group, smiling. “Now form a straight line, and follow me.”

Feeling oddly as though your legs had turned to jelly, you moved into line behind the first years. Harry and Draco followed, staying at your sides. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Harry’s fingers twitch. Acting on instinct, you grabbed his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, then you did the same with Draco, who seemed a bit more reluctant to let you entwine your fingers with his. You did not let either of them go as Dumbledore led the group into the Great Hall.

Strength and hope. Pretending and lies and facades. . .

You lifted your head, squared your shoulders, and morphed your face into that of someone who was not terrified, only mildly intrigued.

Seeing as though your company of three was at the back of the line, you were the last to enter the Great Hall, and when you did, the crowd erupted with murmurs. Of course, you were all much taller than the eleven-year-olds, and you stuck out like sore thumbs, drawing the entire student body’s attention. You didn’t dare look around at the hundreds of shocked faces, didn’t trust yourself to not glance at the Slytherin table if you were to let your gaze wander.

Instead, you focused your stare on the ceiling. Thousands of lit, floating candles, velvety darkness dotted with magical stars—it was just as breathtaking as it had been the first time you ever saw it. You could almost hear Hermione’s haughty voice in your ear: _‘It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside, I read about it in Hogwarts, A History.’_

Moments later, the first years in front of you came to an abrupt stop. It took all you had not to run them over. Dumbeldore silently placed a familiar four-legged stool on the floor before your group, then atop the stool, he placed the Sorting Hat.

Harry whispered in your ear, “The first time I saw it, I thought we’d have to pull a rabbit out. Like a magician.”

Draco scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Not for someone raised by muggles,” you said quietly. Though, when you’d first seen it, you’d simply dreaded putting the old, frayed thing on your head. It was so bloody filthy!

At once, the entire hall quieted.

You looked up to see Headmaster Dippet standing at the Professors’ table, his arms spread wide in greeting.

“Before we begin, I would like to make an announcement,” he said, casting a glance at you and your friends. Your stomach sunk as you realized he was going to address the school about you. . .Of course he would, it made sense. “This year, we will have three new seventh year students joining us. Refugees fleeing the war.” More murmurs, more whispers, more attention. You wanted to wrap Harry’s invisibility cloak around yourself and disappear. “They have endured terrible things to get here, and I hope you will show them respect and compassion. As Hogwarts students, each one of you must strive to be exemplary representatives of the type of Wizards and Witches our school produces. Now, let the Sorting begin!”

As soon as Dippet had finished, the Sorting Hat twitched, as if it had been cued. One of its front rips opened, and you watched the first years, amused by their awe as the hat began to sing:

_‘Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see, So try me on and_

_I will tell you Where you ought to be._

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, if you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folks use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!’_

The Sorting Hat bowed to each House’s table as everyone cheered. You clapped and hollered along with them, unable to contain your admiration. This was Hogwarts—the ridiculousness, the talking hats, the twinkly eyes, the nearly headless ghosts. This was your _home_ , no matter what year.

Professor Dumbledore stepped forward, an absurdly long roll of parchment clasped in his hands. “When I call your name,” he boomed, “you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted.” More chatter from the first years. “Abbott, Beth!”

A stout blonde girl with rosy cheeks stepped forward and sat on the stool. A relative of Hannah Abbott, you realized. She was quickly sorted into Hufflepuff.

You clapped along with the Hufflepuffs as Hannah’s relative—her grandmother perhaps—went to sit at their table. The sea of yellow and black was a familiar and calming sight. Whereas Harry and Draco were your friends, the Hufflepuffs in your time, Susan and Hannah and Justin, they had been your _family_. . .

It hadn’t even been a day, and you already missed them dearly. And you missed Bean, your familiar. Would someone deign to feed him while you were stuck here?

As ‘Jones, Robert’ was sorted into Ravenclaw, you felt a gentle tap on your back. You spun around to find a tall eleven-year-old girl with black hair, rectangle glasses, and a rather serious expression standing behind you. You blinked, surprised. How had she gotten behind you?

“I’m scared,” the girl said. She had a stern sort of voice. You could tell she was trying to hide the way it wavered.

“Me too,” you offered the tall girl. What else could you say?

“What if I don’t get placed into a good House?” the girl asked, wringing her hands.

You mustered up a smile. “All of the Houses are good,” you assured her. She frowned in disbelief so you went on, “but, I heard a rumor once: if you tell the hat what House you want to be in, it might take your preference into consideration.”

Her shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank you.”

Moments later, Dumbeldore called, “McGonagall, Minerva.”

You watched, wide-eyed as the tall girl—your bloody _Professor_ —stepped around you and the boys as she walked up to the stool and placed the hat on her head, still looking very serious. She glanced your way once as if remembering your advice.

“Blimey,” Harry breathed, “Is that—”

“McGonagall,” you laughed, surprised that you hadn’t made the connection. “That’s Professor McGonagall.”

Minerva McGonagall was sorted into Gryffindor. She sent you a victorious smile on her way to the table.

Too soon, it was just the three of you left standing in front of Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat. It seemed, that since you weren’t regular new additions, you were at the end of the list instead of being sorted by last names. You could feel many pairs of eyes on your back, curious and waiting. . . Which House would get the poor, poor refugee orphans?

“Granger, Draco!” Dumbledore called, eyes shining.

Draco gave your hand one final squeeze, then, lacking his usually swagger, he approached the stool and took a seat. The hat was put over his head. A seconds pause and then—

“RAVENCLAW!” the Sorting Hat shouted.

Cheers broke out from the Ravenclaw table, louder than they had been for the ordinary first year students. You cheered too, profoundly relieved that Draco would be safe and away from his grandfather and that... _monster_.

As if in a daze, Draco swept past you and Harry and took a seat at the Ravenclaw table. He looked rather pale. Well, _paler_ than usual.

Next Dumbledore called, “Evans, Harry!”

As Harry walked up to the stool, you clasped your fingers together and pressed your knuckles to your lips in a prayer-like gesture. Please, please, you thought to any god or all-knowing witch or wizard who could hear you. The hat was on Harry’s head for nearly thirty seconds before it bellowed “HUFFLEPUFF!”

With flushed cheeks and messy hair, he brushed against you on his way to his seat. He wasn’t smiling like he had been when sorted into Gryffindor all those years ago, but he was safe. And that’s the only thing that mattered—the safety of your friends.

Dumbledore called your name. A hush fell over the crowd, everyone eager to see where the last new seventh year would be placed.

With legs made of heavy lead, you shuffled forward, eager to get this over with and get yourself out of the spotlight. Pretend, lies, facade. . . You made yourself smile as you took a seat on the stool. You sat there for a brief moment, staring at the crowd of onlookers before all you saw was the darkness of the Sorting Hat’s inside. You waited, toying with the hem of your skirt.

 _‘Ah! We meet again,’_ said a small, familiar voice in your ear. Somehow, even though you weren’t born in this time, the hat remembered you. _‘Difficult, difficult,’_ the hat mused. _‘Plenty of courage. Plenty of kindness. Not a bad mind, either. . .Oh my goodness, so much concern and so much care. Friendliness, yes. A rare one, you are. But— there: such ambition, such talent. Where shall I put you?’ _

You gripped the edge of the stool. _Not Slytherin,_ you thought. _Not Slytherin,_ _please._

 _'Not a fan of snakes, eh?’_ the small voice asked. _‘Your friend told me the same; he was wrong. You could be great, you know? You’re such a cunning lair! So manipulative! Only to protect those whom you love I see. . .It’s all there in your head, you could change this world. And I know just the place to help—better be. . ._

“SLYTHERIN!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sending virtual hugs, 
> 
> Molly


	4. Chapter 4

**Once there was a young man,**

**who like you,**

**sat in this very hall,**

**walked this castle's corridors,**

**stepped under its roof.**

**He seemed to all the world a student like any other.**

**His name:**

_**Tom Riddle.** _

_-Albus Dumbledore._

* * *

_Slytherin._

On legs that felt as if they were wrapped in Devil’s snare, you toppled away from the stool and wove your way towards the table of silver and green. If anyone was cheering, you could not hear them over the rushing of blood in your ears. Slytherin? How were _you_ a Slytherin? The Sorting Hat must’ve made a mistake—because this was bloody impossible.

Slytherins were cunning and resourceful and ambitious. You were none of those things—you were a clumsy little muggle-born who’d gotten yourself and your friends stuck in a different time because of your foolishness. You were nothing but a failure. Nothing.

You could not breathe.

People were watching. So many eyes, too many eyes, pressed on you as your steps faltered. _Slytherin, snakes, Voldemort, Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin…_

You were going to vomit.

Right over your new robes; right over the flagged stone floors and your pretty leather shoes.

Someone appeared in front of you: a tall girl with golden hair, freckled cheeks, blue eyes, and a nose that seemed a bit too large for her face. She placed her hands on your upper arms, giving you a gentle shake as her lips moved. Speaking. She was speaking to you and you couldn’t hear her.

You could not breathe, you could not answer—you were downing.

 _Help me,_ you tried to say to the girl, but your voice failed you.

 _Please help me_ , you thought desperately, _Please, please._

 _ **Breathe**_ , said a smooth voice in your head that was not your own, _**just breathe, little dove.**_

You obeyed, not thinking much of the intruder in your head as you desperately gulped for air. Slowly, too slowly, you were able to breathe normally, cool air trickling into your empty lungs. All at once, you could hear again. An onslaught of sound hit you like a violent ocean wave—murmurs of concern, questioning, the rapid beating of your strained heart.

“. . .alright?” the girl who clutched your arms was saying, a crease forming between her manicured eyebrows. Her voice was coated in a thick Northern Irish accent and it was much deeper than what you had expected from the look of her. She wore a Headgirl pin on the lapel of her robes. A seventh year, then.

You realized she’d been asking you a question.

“What?” you asked stupidly, breathlessly, feeling your face go red.

“Are you alright?” the girl repeated, her lips twitching upwards to form a kind, forgiving smile you’d used many times yourself. “You look like you’re going to faint.”

You _felt_ like you were going to faint. “I’m okay,” you assured her, though you were unable to summon up a smile. “I’m just a bit shocked, that’s all.”

Her hands slipped away from your arms, shoulders moving with a soundless chuckle. “I was, too,” she said, “I suppose it’s normal with the _‘every Slytherin is evil’_ nonsense and all that.” She shook her head disapprovingly, then abruptly stuck her pale hand in your face. Her nails were jagged and short as if she’d chewed them down. “The name’s Elizabeth Duffins. But everyone calls me Lizzy. I’m Headgirl this year.”

You took her hand and introduced yourself, well aware that she, along with everyone else, already knew your name. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lizzy.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she said. “It isn’t often we get new older students, you know? And there aren’t many of us seventh-year girls, it’ll be nice to have someone other than Peeves to gossip with.” She jerked her head down the table and took a step backward. “Come along. You don’t really want to sit with the first-years, do you?”

You looked around. In your daze, you hadn’t even realized that you’d nearly taken a seat with the new eleven-year-old Slytherins instead of with the students your age. Cheeks flaming once again, you swiftly followed Lizzy across the flagged stone floor as she strutted towards the far end of the table. She walked in a way that reminded you very much of Ginny’s pre-Quidditch flaunting.

“This Marigold Yaxley,” Lizzy said as you took a seat on her right, loosely gesturing across the table to a prim looking, dark-haired girl with golden brown skin who had her nose in a book. You did your best to nod politely at Marigold as your mind began reeling.

 _Yaxley._ You’d heard the name before, of course, the Yaxley’s were one of the sacred twenty-eight families, but there was another reason why it seemed so familiar. Surely it wasn’t—

You smothered your gasp with a cough.

Yaxley as in _Corban Yaxley_ , the wicked and corrupt Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement back in your time. Marigold was—would be—related to a loyal follower of the Dark Lord.

_Oh God, oh God._

You were, once again, struck by the severity of your situation. These people, some of them at least, would soon parent the first generation of Voldemort’s Death Eaters.

Swallowing, you forced yourself to say, “Hello, Marigold.”

“It’s Mari,” she said plainly, glancing up from her book to momentarily fix you with her inexpressive dark eyes. There was nothing rude about her tone—though you couldn’t help but wonder if you had already done something to offend her.

Lizzy cleared her throat with a chastising glance in her friend’s direction. “You’ll have to forgive Mari. She loathes returning to school more than anything. It makes her extra bitter. And pleasantries have never been her forte.”

“I can be pleasant,” Mari said. She looked up, glancing between you and Lizzy. With a muted sigh, she placed her book page-down on the table. You were rather astonished to see that she was reading _Pride and Prejudice_ , a celebrated novel by Jane Austen. How had a pure-blood witch gotten her hands on a muggle book? As you gaped, Mari said, “I’m sorry if I seemed impolite—the train ride always makes me intolerable. It’s...lovely to meet you.”

“I’m glad to meet you as well,” you said, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

Mercifully, the dishes on the table were abruptly filled with all manners of food: bacon and steak, lamb chops, casserole, black pudding, Cornish pasties, and so much more. Though you had been expecting this, a new student wouldn’t have—so you did your best to look shocked at the assortment.

Lizzy and Mari quickly dug in, sparing you from any further conversation. As they ate, you began to pile your plate with food. Some vegetables, some meat, and even a bit of Yorkshire pudding. Your stomach grumbled. It had been, what, nearly a day and a half since your last breakfast back in 1997? You were absolutely famished, but when you raised your fork, you found yourself unable to put the bite of roasted beef into your mouth.

Your grip slackened and you placed the fork down, suddenly having lost your appetite. Your throat went dry and your stomach churned. You reached across the table and poured yourself a small glass of pumpkin juice, sipping at the drink slowly enough so that you were sure you weren’t going to retch it back up. How could you have let yourself get distracted by food? All without checking on—

You looked over your shoulder so fast it hurt, searching across the sea of chattering students. Your eyes scanned over the tables and... _there_ —a familiar blond head of meticulously combed hair sticking up in the middle of the Ravenclaw students. Draco appeared to be munching on a green apple. Of course.

You craned your neck further. No sight of Harry.

Your heart thumped wildly, though you couldn’t fathom why. You were certain Harry was fine—no one would dare harm him in front of such a large crowd, not even Riddle, whom you had yet to lay eyes on. At this moment, the only thing that could pose a real danger to Harry was you and your ceaseless worrying.

You turned back around and took another sip of pumpkin juice, staring blankly at your untouched plate. You hadn’t known where you and your friends would be sorted before it actually happened, but a small part of you had just assumed you’d all be placed together. Foolish. You had been foolishly clinging to hope—a common occurrence over the past few days.

Your nails dug into your palms. How could you protect them if you weren’t even in the same House? What if you didn’t have any classes together? Were you each meant to suffer in silence until you got home? What would—

“Are you sure you’re alright?” 

You started. Beside you, Lizzy was frowning, her eyes flashing with evident concern. Across the table, Mari looked up from her food, once again fixing you with that dark, unreadable stare. Had your thoughts been written all over your face? Pretending and lying. It seemed you were doing a pretty damn rotten job at that bit so far.

You nodded, fighting the urge to look behind you once more. “Yes, I’m fine,” you said, glancing down at your drink, “I’m just going to miss my friends, that’s all.”

Mari made a faint sound of displeasure and you wondered, once again, if you had somehow offended her, but when you glanced her way, you realized she wasn’t paying attention to you at all. She was looking— _glaring_ rather—down the table. It was the most emotion you’d seen on her face since meeting her, and your curiosity to figure out who was causing her such animosity overpowered your apprehensive mind.

You gently followed her gaze.

She was staring at a group of Slytherin students, who appeared to be seventh or sixth years. The one seated closest to you was a scrawny boy with unruly dark-brown hair, the next was a boy who was a bit lumpy-looking with thin, flaxen locks, and the third had the unmistakably broad shoulders of an athlete and his chin-length hair was very, very blond.

Another student was sitting amongst them, but all you could see of him was his pale hand as he reached across the table to grab a platter of chocolate truffles. A pale hand adorned by a singular, unpolished ring. Golden band, black stone—a signet ring.

The realization hit you like a hex to the face.

 _Marvolo Gaunt’s_ signet ring.

The Resurrection stone.

Tom Riddle’s second Horcrux.

One of the boys—the lumpy-looking one—turned his head ever so slightly in your direction. Heart lodged in your throat, you jerked your head back to Mari and Lizzy, swiftly hiding your shaking hands beneath the table.

You had been subconsciously looking for _him_ throughout the ceremony, trying to catch sight of the creature who had ruined both Harry and Draco’s lives, had nearly turned your school into a war zone—and there he was, sitting down the table with his ‘friends’, one of which you were almost certain was Abraxas Malfoy, and you couldn’t even stomach the sight of his _bloody_ hand.

You were a coward. A fool.

Through your lashes, you peeked up at Mari. Though she was no longer glaring at the boys, the dark-haired girl was currently occupied with vehemently stabbing her fork into a large fillet of steak. You frowned. What had Riddle’s group ever done to make her, a pureblood, so very...loathsome?

Against all rational thought, you asked, “Who are they?”

Mari halted her stabbing and looked at you. The glower on her face melted away and was replaced by something that resembled mild disappointment. She opened her mouth to respond but it was Lizzy who said, “Already caught your eye, have they? I’m not surprised.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Mari placed her fork down. “ _They_ call themselves the Knights of Walpurgis; a group of seventh years who are devoted to aiding Hogwarts in any way possible,” she said. “It’s a load of bullshit if you ask me, but the Professors eat it up like candy. Dippet adores them, not to mention that they’ve got Slughorn wrapped around their slimy fingers.”

“They’re purebloods and they want everyone to know it,” added Lizzy, eyes darkening. That bit gave you a pause. Tom Riddle, by your recollection, was not a pureblooded wizard. “At least half the school’s pining over ‘em, and the rest want to be apart of their little gang.”

“Prancing peacocks, the lot of them,” Mari spat. “But no one else sees how phony they are. Too distracted by Abraxas and Tom’s pretty smiles to see the truth, I suppose.”

“And what is the truth?” you asked, glad to have somehow befriended people who weren’t charmed by the _Knights of Walpurgis_. From what Harry and Ginny had informed you of Riddle and his tightly-knit group, you’d assumed that you would be the only one who comprehended how truly dishonest and evil they were. “What have they done to make you hate them so?”

With a huff, Lizzy said, “I’d have little to no reason for disliking them if they didn’t dislike me.” She chewed on her thumb-nail. “I’m a muggle-born, you see,” she explained, looking a bit afraid like you were going to spring up from your seat and tell her you didn’t stoop so low as to eat with _mudbloods._ When you remained silent, she went on, “They think I’m unworthy of being at Hogwarts and it bothers them that I’m an excellent student. The brightest, really. Oh, you should’ve seen their faces when they found out I was named Headgirl for the year! I thought Malfoy was going to burst a blood vessel.”

“I’m sure it was quite a sight,” you said, smiling even as your stomach roiled with fury. She seemed so aloof about being judged for her blood status—brushing it off like it was natural and not serious at all. “Have they ever acted on their dislike?”

“No, no. Not at me.” Lizzy breathed, shaking her head. Her eyes clouded. She quickly glanced over her shoulder, placed a hand over her mouth, then said, “But there was this time back in third year, a girl named Myrt—”

 _“Enough,”_ Mari interrupted, swatting Lizzy’s hand with her book. “There’s no need to frighten her, Elizabeth. Shame on you.” The dark-haired girl turned to you and sighed like an exasperated mother. “Look, all you need to know is that they’re dangerous. Riddle, Malfoy, Nott, Avery—every single one. Just...be careful around them, alright?”

“I’ll try.”

_You did not need to be asked twice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit busy with school recently(because of COVID we're fitting in five months of learning into ten classes and it's a bit stressful) It's also stressful to sit in a room full of kids my age(fifteen-year-olds) and listen to them talk about how they shouldn't have to wear masks because it'll give them acne and they can't read each other's lips. It's ridiculous and it makes me want to strangle someone. Respectfully. I would strangle them respectfully. 
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to all my fellow Canadians!! Hope you enjoyed your long weekend. 
> 
> Sending virtual hugs, 
> 
> Molly


	5. Chapter 5

Over the years, you’d grown used to being overlooked. While in the company of the Chosen One, the Malfoy Heir, and their many devotees, you were often reduced to nothing but an insignificant bystander; the nice, quiet girl who didn’t mean much but was just always there. You didn’t mind it—life was easier out of the spotlight. And there was something simple about living in your friends’ shadows.

You were comforted by anonymity, but you had never craved it.

Not until today.

_“She doesn’t look like a refugee.”_

_“You think she’s got any battle scars?”_

_“I wonder if she fought Grindelwald himself.”_

_“Her face is so red!”_

_“She looks like she’s going to cry.”_

The whispers followed you as you moved along with the crowd’s flow towards the Great Hall’s towering doors. The only thing keeping you from bolting in the opposite direction was Lizzy’s firm, reassuring grip on your inner elbow as she and Mari walked on each of your sides. _Just ignore them_ , Yaxley had whispered in your ear before you’d left the table after Dippet’s farewell remarks. _It’s pitiful that they have nothing better to talk about._

And you were trying. Trying so very hard to pay no mind to what they were saying, but one bit of the never-ending gossip had struck you so hard that you’d nearly stopped dead in the middle of the Hall:

 _“Poor thing,_ ” came the words from someplace behind you. _“At least she’s safe now.”_

_Safe?_

You were clenching your teeth so hard you tasted blood. You weren’t safe. Harry and Draco—who had both vanished into the crowd of full-bellied and tired students—weren’t safe. And you couldn’t tell anyone without endangering your lives and doing away with your last semblance of sanity.

You wanted to run away from their gossiping, perhaps hide in the Room of Requirement like you had with Dumbledore’s Army, but thought better of it. These people believed you to be oblivious of the castle’s geography; you couldn’t just disappear.

As if sensing your discontent, Lizzy sped up and steered you farther away from the crowd. Any student who looked as if they were going to approach you to ask a question was promptly deterred by a single glance from Mari. Their terror was almost laughable. It seemed you weren’t the only one who feared the prospect of Yaxley’s silent, dark-eyed wrath.

Lizzy was your anchor, Mari your guard—and though neither of them spoke during the long trek to the Slytherin common room, you were immensely grateful for their company. You hadn’t even known them for more than an hour and you could already tell that the three of you were going to become dear friends. When you told them just that, Lizzy gave you a gapped-toothed smile and replied, “Oh—certainly. I made plans to befriend you as soon as you walked in on the arms of those heaven-sent boys. I would’ve dealt with you even if you were a terrible person just to get a chance at catching the blond one’s eye. I’m glad you’re not a pain. It’ll make my conquest all the more enjoyable.”

You snorted. “I’m not sure the blond one will be easily _conquered_.”

“We’ll see.”

Not too long later, after having travelled down countless flights of stairs that seemed to grow narrower and narrower as you went along, you found yourself cramped in beside Mari and Lizzy at the end of a damp-smelling hallway, staring at a portrait of a woman wearing a dress made of delicate, green lace. She had sad eyes, waxen skin, and there was a snake curled around her forearm like a living gauntlet. She was eerily beautiful. Almost haunted-looking.

When she noticed you, the woman in the portrait raised an eyebrow. “Password?”

Lizzy pulled a crumpled piece of paper from a pocket in her cloak. She squinted at the scribbled writing on it for a moment and then said, “Non desistas. Non exieris.”

Non desistas. Non exieris. _Never give up, never surrender._

The woman smiled and said, “Welcome home.”

The portrait swung backward, revealing a large, arched doorway. After sending a hasty wave to the woman, Lizzy grabbed your wrist and nearly wrenched your shoulder from its socket as she pulled you through the opening.

“Must you be so—”

You cut yourself off.

The Slytherin common room was _breathtaking_. You’d never seen anything like it; even the Hufflepuff common room couldn’t compare. The walls, which appeared to be made of some sort of gray stone, were veiled in vines of English Ivy and littered with countless wooden doors. Each corner of the room was filled by a sweeping staircase, all leading to overhanging balconies and patios. You spied a few curious heads poking over the snake-shaped railings as you stepped further into the space.

“Wow,” you breathed, unable to contain your awe as you beheld the towering, floor-to-ceiling windows across the room. They didn’t face the outside, you realized with a start. The murkiness, the opaque color that blanketed the entire common space in a soft, green glow—it was the Great Lake.

Draco and Pansy had never failed to boast and sing praises of their House’s common room, but this was far more magnificent than anything you’d ever imagined.

“It never gets old,” Mari said from beside you. It wasn’t quite a smile, but her lips twitched up with what could only be restrained fondness. She clutched her book to her chest and gave Lizzy a look.

“Oh, right—um,” Lizzy stumbled over her words, “Mari and I are going to go unpack our things, alright. You can explore for as long as you want, just be in bed by nine, okay?” She pointed to one of the sweeping staircases. “Girls’ dorms are right up there and down the hall. We’ve had an empty bed in ours for years. I don’t think anyone’ll mind if you stay with us. If you want to, I mean.”

Oh, how you were going to miss her kindness when you found a way home, a way out of this cursed time. You summoned a grin and said, “I’ll see you both at nine.”

But your smile fell when they turned away and you looked up, catching sight of the vast, intricate mural on the ceiling. It was of a snake with a skull’s head, so very reminiscent of— _the Dark Mark_. Perhaps this was where Voldemort had gotten his inspiration for that horrid tattoo he’d branded onto Draco’s forearm. You shuddered before walking deeper into the room, glad that Mari and Lizzy had left before you’d noticed the untasteful artwork.

You were a badger in a pit of snakes, a muggleborn in a pureblood House. And you didn’t belong here, no matter how generous your new friends were being.

You ran a hand over one of the dark green velvet lounges as you eyed the many polished doors strewn about the space. Each had initials engraved into their door frames with golden lettering. The closest to you read, _S.C._ What could that possibly mean? You took a step closer, glancing around as you brushed the tips of your fingers against the door’s handle. It wasn’t locked. Lizzy hadn’t specified if there were any off-limit parts of the common room and none of the Slytherins watching you from the balconies above were voicing their caution...

Later, you would kick yourself for being so foolish, for leaving your wits behind like some senseless first year, but now, you turned the handle and pushed it open, then stepped into what appeared to be an office, and—froze.

It wasn’t the ornately carved redwood furniture, or the staggering grandeur of the room, or even the warmth of the roaring, green fire that made you stop dead. It was the raven-haired boy seated behind the desk, a sickeningly familiar ring glinting on his right hand as he watched you closely with dark, depthless eyes.

_Tom Riddle._

* * *

Lord Voldemort’s younger self was formidable in his perfection, somehow radiating unmatched authority and lethal grace with sitting utterly still. He remained imposingly silent as you stood stock-still in the doorway; a spider watching its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The blood rushed from your head.

You began to back away, but the door was already swinging shut behind you. Your hands were shaking so badly that you didn’t bother reaching for your wand. What good would it do against him, anyway? He was the most dangerous Dark Wizard of all time and you—you were _nothing_.

Oh, Merlin help you...

You had been a fool to think that this would be easy; to think that you could get home without acknowledging the Dark Lord’s presence because as you finally gazed upon him, you realized there would be no ignoring Tom Riddle. Fate would not allow you such mercy.

You’d had nightmares like this. Nightmares about encountering the creature who’d butchered countless witches and wizards and muggles; about, at last, seeing the man whose name many were too afraid to speak aloud. In your sleep, he came to you in the form of a snake-faced monster. But this was different. This wasn’t just a figment of your deepest imagination, this was real. And now, Tom Riddle wasn’t an ugly, hissing beast, he was just a...boy.

You were loath to admit, but Voldemort—this version of him at least—was beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. His raven hair glistened in the study’s green firelight, curling delicately around his ears, offsetting his creamlike, pale skin. He was slender, but evidently well built beneath his closely tailored uniform. He seemed relatively...unassuming, so much so that you might’ve marked him for an ordinary, albeit unearthly attractive, student, had you not noticed the calculating gleam in his dark blue eyes.

He was the most handsome wizard you had ever seen.

And the most terrifying.

You knew you were staring, but you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him. After a too-long moment of unchecked gaping, Riddle frowned, the downward twitch of his brow so subtle that you barely noticed it. But it was there—the suspicion, the curiosity, the wicked speculation.

 _Murderer_ , you wanted to scream. _Heartless, vile murderer._

He pushed back from the desk and stood.

In a flash, your wand was pointed at his chest, trembling in your unsure grip.

His eyes narrowed.

You didn’t have to face the consequences of drawing your wand on him, as the study’s door swung open behind you, and in stepped a familiar man.

“Tom. M’boy!” called a much, _much_ younger Professor Horace Slughorn as he walked right past you, not noticing you where you were pressed tightly against the wall out of fear. “That was quite the feast, wasn’t it? Refugees! Can you believe it? And another Slytherin! It’s thrilling, you know, there’s hardly any excitement at Hogwarts these days. Aren’t you just—”

“We have company, Professor,” Riddle said, tipping his chin at you without so much as a glance in your direction. The hair on the back of your neck rose as he spoke. His voice was deep and mellifluous; his words articulate and well-trained. You quickly tucked your wand into the folds of your robes before Slughorn whirled around, reddening as he noted your presence.

“Oh! Blimey, Tom. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” The professor raised his palms to you as he spoke, taking a hesitant step in your direction. Wary; as if he were approaching a cornered animal. “Hello, dear. Are you alright?”

Slughorn stepped closer. It took all you had to keep yourself from bolting away. You could hardly breathe. The room was beginning to feel too hot; too suffocating. Or perhaps it was just Tom Riddle’s presence that had sucked the air from your lungs. He was watching you from over the professor’s shoulder. _Muderer. Heartless, vile murderer._

Riddle and Slughorn were both openly frowning at you now, looking somewhat expectant...as if they were waiting for you to speak. You racked your memory. Had the professor asked you a question?

Finally regaining control of your rampant mind, you tore your eyes away from Riddle and focused the entirety of your attention on Slughorn. Kind, unsuspecting professor Slughorn who had no idea a malicious killer stood at his back. You forced yourself to take a deep, calming breath. And another. Then you said in a too-quiet voice, “I beg your pardon?”

Slughorn gave you a look beneath his thick brown eyebrows, an amused sort of fondness clouding his face; a fondness that reminded you of how one would look down upon a wounded house-elf. Draco would’ve hexed anyone who dared look at you with such condescension. But Draco wasn’t here to be your valiant defender and you—you were alone.

“I was only wondering if you were alright, my dear,” Slughorn said, blissfully unaware of your terror. “You do seem a bit...spooked.”

Spooked?

You’d bet all your belongings that the professor would be _spooked_ too if he knew what type of wizard stood at the desk behind him. God, help him...He looked at Riddle as if the boy were his very own son.

Heart beating violently in your chest, you kept your eyes glued to Slughorn as you replied, “I’m okay.” How many times had you said that today? You weren’t _okay_. And you hadn’t been for a long while, not that anyone had noticed. “You just startled me, that’s all.”

“Oh—yes, of course. My apologies” He nodded as if reassuring himself of your good health. “Well, I see you’ve already been acquainted with Mr. Riddle, here.”

“We haven’t yet had the pleasure of an introduction,” said the aforementioned boy, casting you a glance that said you wouldn’t get away so easily. Bastard. He was a God-damned _bastard_.

“I’m Head of Slytherin House and Potions Master here at Hogwarts,” the professor was saying, but you could hardly focus on his words. Most of your will-power was directed to keeping yourself from fainting as Slughorn walked to Riddle’s side. The older wizard placed a fatherly hand on the dark-haired boy’s shoulder. You tried not to dwell on the way Riddle flinched beneath the touch. “And this strapping young lad here is Mr. Tom Riddle; the best student I’ve had in...well— _ever_!”

Though every bone in your body cautioned against it, you found yourself glancing back to the so-called best student ever.

He was smiling now. A pristine, flawless grin that would’ve made you swoon and sigh had it not been on the face of a loveless killer. All traces of mistrust had long vanished; gone as if his suspicion had never been there. How could someone conceal his true emotions so well? Was he even capable of producing emotions?

Your skin crawled as you dipped your chin to him in greeting, just as a socially respectable young lady would. As you went to turn back to Slughorn, something flashed in the corner of your eye. You returned your gaze to Riddle—to the hand that he had extended in your direction.

_Bastard. Murderer. Snake._

You took it.

His skin was cold against yours, his grip firm. And the ring...The ring felt warm and ancient and entirely _wrong_ as it brushed against your fingers. A different sort of dread began to seep into your body, sending a chill down your spine and numbing your thoughts. Your ears were ringing. You could not move—could not tear yourself away from the piece of jewelry; the evidence of an unimaginable crime. _To make a Horcrux, one must split the soul into two by committing the supreme act of evil._

The ringing in your ears was beginning to sound like a man’s pained screaming.

You wrenched your hand from his grip so fast that you nearly fell over from the momentum. Riddle’s eyes shot open as you clutched your fist to your chest. It hurt—not just the sound echoing in your head; your finger burned where the ring had made contact with your skin. It felt like...death.

Like power.

You knew you were doing it again; being far too conspicuous. How had you already drawn the wrong sort of attention? Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you folded your hands behind your back.“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Riddle.”

He gave you a look that said, **let us not bother with lies.**

Slughorn began to speak again, going on about how very lucky you were to have been placed in such a noble House, but you paid no mind to his ramblings. You kept your gaze on Riddle, waiting. Waiting for him to drop the perfect schoolboy facade, for him to tell the Potions Master that you’d raised your wand to hex him just moments ago. A small, twisted part of you wished he’d lash out and attack you. If the professor witnessed such a thing, Riddle would be placed in Azkaban for the remainder of his life and everything that he had done, every crime that he had committed—would commit—could be prevented.

But it was wishful thinking, for Tom Riddle did no such thing; he simply regarded you with a single raised eyebrow, thumbing that loathsome ring as Slughorn prattled on about Slytherin’s Quidditch team.

You had made a terrible mistake.

By coming into this room, you’d unwittingly drawn the attention of the very person you’d sought to avoid, and in turn, you’d drawn his attention to Harry and Draco. If Tom Riddle was suspicious of you and your mannerisms, then he would undoubtedly become suspicious of the people you’d arrived with. The mere thought of Voldemort’s younger self singling out either of your friends was enough to make a cold panic bubble up in your chest.

You needed to leave.

You needed to get as far away from that monstrous boy as you could.

“I should go,” you said suddenly, not caring that you’d interrupted Slughorn’s talk of winning the House Cup. You needed to get away—you needed air that hadn’t been tainted by Riddle’s cologne. “It’s—uh. It’s getting late.”

The professor frowned, checking his watch. “Curfew isn’t for another thirty minutes, my dear.”

But you were already wrapping your hand around the door’s handle, already halfway out of the room. You were gripping your wand so hard that your fingers ached, but the pain was nothing compared to the sensation of Tom Riddle’s eyes searing into the back of your head. You didn’t dare look over your shoulder as you called, “Goodnight!”

As the door swung shut at your back, you heard Slughorn ask incredulously, “She’s an odd one, isn’t she?”

You didn’t stick around long enough to hear Riddle’s reply.

* * *

Later that night, lying beneath a canopy of green and silver in a bed that was not your own, with your fingers curled tightly around the Time-Turner, you wept yourself into a fitful sleep and dreamt of going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! There he is—my favorite murderer.
> 
> Tom Riddle could slap me and I would thank him. Unhealthy, yes, yes, I know. But who doesn't dream of having their very own toxic enemies to lovers romance??
> 
> Sending virtual hugs, 
> 
> Molly.


	6. Chapter 6

The library had always been your favourite part of Hogwarts.

The first time you’d seen it, you’d been blown away by the sheer abundance of books in the chamber. As a young girl who had been using stories and fairytales to escape her ordinary muggle life for nearly eleven years, you’d found the library to be the single most wondrous place in the castle. Shelves from floor to ceiling, stacks of papers and scrolls that stood taller than Hagrid, tomes so large they took up entire tables—the reading material had seemed _endless_. Surely there wasn’t a question in the world, no matter how absurd or baffling, that couldn’t be answered within the school’s famed academic archives. 

And yet for some reason—whether it be fate or destiny or Merlin’s ghost playing some cruel joke on you—you could not locate a single book about time-travel.

“Bloody hell,” you whispered to yourself as you reached the last page of yet another writing that had proved to be no help at all. Nothing. There was nothing here. You put your head in your hands, feeling tears of frustration prick at your eyes. _“Bloody hell.”_

The exhaustion plaguing your body was not helping to lighten your mood. You had hardly gotten any rest last night. Between the Sorting Ceremony, the feast, and your brief encounter with Tom Riddle, your nerves had been too shot to let you sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Come morning, you’d been stiff with fatigue, your mind laden with unremitting worry. It had been a relief when Lizzy had woken up at the crack of dawn, offering to give you a tour of the school’s grounds before breakfast.

Pretending to be awed by the Whomping Willow, the Great Lake, and the Dark Forest when you had seen it all before had been harder than you’d expected. You’d been terrified the entire time that your lack of enthusiasm would give you away, so you’d humoured Lizzy throughout your trip around the grounds, matching her relentless joy with a deceiving smile of your own. You’d marvelled the Quidditch pitch from afar; you’d gasped and applauded while walking up and down the moving staircases; you’d waved to the portraits who had been awake to grumble at you so early in the morning. And your cheerful companion didn’t seem to doubt your performance for a second.

Once you got back to your time, perhaps you would consider a career in acting.

After an hour or so of forced excitement, Lizzy had abruptly halted the tour because Peeves was tormenting some ickle first-years and it was her job as Head Girl to save them from the Poltergeist’s antics. She had parted ways with you in the lower West wing of the school, just inches away from the library’s welcoming doors. Who could blame you for having skipped breakfast to start looking for a way home?

So here you were—hungry and exhausted and _alone_ , with nothing but a pile of useless books and a few papercuts to amount for your hours of fruitless research.

_Bloody hell, indeed._

You let your head fall from your hands, dropping your cheek onto the table with a loud _thud_. You wanted to go home. You wanted to forget that this had ever happened. You wanted Harry and Draco to be here helping you because that was fucking common courtesy—

You inhaled sharply, breathing in the comforting smell of old parchment.

No. You would not demand anything of the boys. This whole mess was your fault. You had broken the Time-Turner, you would find a way to fix it. 

You exhaled. “Merlin, help me.”

An amused male voice cut through the library’s silence, “I’m no legendary prophet who’s been dead for centuries, but if you want help, you need only ask.”

You whirled, stiffening as the blond boy you’d seen sitting with Tom Riddle at yesterday’s feast stepped out from behind the nearest bookshelf, a bright grin tugging at his familiar features.

Familiar—not just because you’d seen him last night. You recognized that alabaster-pale face; that pulsing aura of wealthy, pureblood arrogance.

Abraxas Malfoy wasn’t classically beautiful like his grandson, but he still possessed the swagger of a boy who’d been swooned over his entire life. You supposed the promise of his sizable inheritance was enough to convince his admirers to look past the large chip in his front tooth, the greasy, over-gelled hair, and the crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken multiple times.

Draco hadn’t spoken much of his grandfather, but you did know that he’d died during a Dragon Pox outbreak when Lucius Malfoy was very young. 

You were staring at a dead man.

A dead man who was remembered for his life-long loyalty to Voldemort.

“Looks like you’ve been here a while,” Abraxas surmised as he rounded the table, trailing his fingers over the pile of books you’d collected throughout the morning. He picked up the closest and flipped it over, frowning at the title. Your blood went cold with trepidation as he read it aloud, “ _A Wizard’s Guide to The Inner Workings of Time_ , huh? Must be a real page-turner. Searching for anything specific?”

Your throat went dry as you surveyed him. There was no trace of suspicion on his roughly hewn face. He looked genuinely curious, but you knew better than to believe the charade. He didn’t care about your reading habits. He probably working up to some cheesy innuendo or he was spying for his _master_ , a dark-haired boy whose name and crimes you wished to forget.

 _They’re dangerous,_ Mari’s voice echoed in your head. _Just...be careful around them, alright?_

“Just doing some light reading before classes start,” you said, swallowing thickly as you reached across the table to grab the book from his hands. You tried not to jolt when his fingers brushed against your knuckles, the movement painfully deliberate on his part. “I’ve heard that the Hogwarts curriculum is quite advanced.”

“Hm. I find most of the exams to be rather unchallenging,” he said, a self-satisfied grin pulling at his mouth. Resting his elbows on the table, he leaned closer. You did not appreciate the smarmy look on his face. Not one bit. “But if you’re afraid of failing, I could always pull some strings for you, _beautiful_.”

_Smooth._

You raised a brow. “Are you insinuating that I require _help_ to do well in school? If so, then I am truly offended and I must ask you, kindly, to piss off.”

His eyes widened and you fought the urge to laugh at his shock. He must’ve been quite unused to his pick-up lines failing. He and Draco were alike in the arrogance spectrum, at the very least.

“My sincerest apologies. I meant no offence,” Abraxas said chivalrously after regaining his composure, regarding you with a newfound awareness as he pulled away, giving you back a considerate amount of space. “I’m sure your brilliance rivals that of Nicolas Flamel. Rest assured, you’ll have no problem with any classes and if you do not require my help, I shall, _kindly_ , piss off.”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. Regardless of his affiliations, you were glad that he’d respected your brushing off. You knew many young men back in your time who handled rejection with _much_ less dignity.

“I really should get back to work,” you said, gesturing to the columns of unread books around you. “I’m a busy woman; intelligence is a chore. Was there anything you needed?”

Abraxas stood, tugging at his collar as he said, “I just wanted to inform you that I’m your Prefect for the year.” He gestured to the green and silver pin on his lapel. “And if I didn’t know that you were averse to help, I would tell you that I am here for anything you need. As is the Headboy, Tom. I think he’s actually the better op—”

“Thanks,” you said a bit too harshly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, broad chest bulging as he dipped his chin. You nodded, bidding him farewell, but instead of leaving, Abraxas pulled an ornate pocket watch from his cloak and said, “It’s nearly noon. Would you like me to escort you to the Great Hall for lunch?”

 _No_ , you thought but didn’t speak aloud. You regarded Abraxas, eyeing the tentative smile on his face, knowing very well that he would not huff and stomp if you denied him. It had been days since you’d been able to eat an entire meal’s worth of food and going to the Great Hall would give you a chance to see Harry and Draco. Perhaps you would work better on a full stomach, anyway; the books could wait.

You stood, smoothing your skirt down as you pushed in your chair. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Abraxas smiled brightly and extended his arm. You took it, pausing as you cast a glance over your shoulder. A wave of disappointment washed over you as you stared at the pile of useless books you’d wasted your time on all morning. Would you ever go home?

“Is something wrong?” Abraxas asked, pulling away slightly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You squeezed his arm, drawing him back to your side. “I’m alright. My legs are a bit numb, that’s all. Just regaining my balance.”

_Let us not bother with lies._

Graciously, your escort made no further attempt at conversation during your walk to the Great Hall. You were glad for the silence; it gave you time to observe this part of the castle. The layout was mostly the same as in your time but some of the paintings were new—old, truly—and a portrait of a long-bearded man who you didn’t recognize _whistled_ at you as you passed by. No wonder it had been taken down. Harassing students was no small offence, for Merlin’s sake.

“Here we are,” Abraxas said when you reached the Great Hall, halting before the opening and leaving you out of view of the crowd within. Giving you the _option_ to be seen on his arm, you realized. “Would you like to sit with my friends and me? Nott and Avery are dying to meet the new girl, they may combust when they find out I encountered you first.”

You chuckled, pretending not to be fearful of his offer. You would most certainly not be sitting anywhere near Tom Riddle, not after what had happened last night. “I owe Draco and Harry a visit,” you said, praying that he didn’t insist.

“Understandable. I can’t imagine what you three have been through together.” Abraxas dropped his arm, slipping your hand from his own with a chipped-toothed smile that was nothing but pleasant. He bent forwards in a mock bow, gesturing towards the Great Hall. “Ladies first.”

"Thank you, _kind sir_.”

A few heads turned when you entered with Abraxas Malfoy at your back, but for the most part, the majority of students were preoccupied with eating their lunches and paid you no heed. You kept your gaze away from the Slytherin table, dreading not just Tom Riddle’s inevitable attention, but Mari’s as well. She had warned you to stay away from Abraxas and you trusted her judgement. Yet here you were, standing in the doorway with one of the _Knights of Walpurgis_.

Your eyes shifted to the Ravenclaw table and—

Oh, Merlin’s bloody balls. It appeared that Draco had not been so oblivious of your entrance as many of the other students. His cheeks were flushed scarlet, wide eyes bouncing between you and his grandfather—

 _Grandfather._ Why had you not considered how much it would bother Draco to see you with Abraxas?

“Excuse me,” you said to the boy at your side, veering towards Draco and his accusing stare, but Abraxas’ hand shot out and grabbed your wirst, halting you.

“Careful of the brunette,” he said, jerking his chin towards where you had been headed. Only then did you notice the unfathomably beautiful girl seated beside Draco, her eyes flickering with something that resembled fire. “She bites.”

You raised a brow at Abraxas. “ _You_ would know.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, sauntering away with a subtle wink.

You sighed through your nose and spun around, half skipping, half running towards Draco. As you neared, he looked down at his plate, white-knuckling the knife in his hand. 

“Draco—I.” You cut yourself off. What could you say to make amends for this? “I’m sorry.”

When he didn’t respond, you felt your resolve crumble. Fool. You were a fool. You needed Harry. He always knew how to console his boyfriend. Why had you walked in with Abraxas? Why had you let yourself be distracted by his boyish sincerity? 

“Draco,” you tried again. No reply. Desperate, you moved to take a seat across from him, but the brunette girl that Abraxas had pointed out cleared her throat, placing her hand on the table where you were going to sit.

“You’re new here,” she said in a sickeningly melodic voice, smiling up at you. Her eyes were the colour of the green apples Draco favoured. She looked like a model from muggle magazines.“But this is the Ravenclaw table. You’re not Ravenclaw, are you?”

You frowned. “No.”

“No,” she repeated, flashing her impossibly white teeth. “You’re _Slytherin_ . So you have to sit at the _Slytherin_ table.”

Draco looked up at last. “Druella—”

The girl—Druella—ignored him. “Does that make sense?” 

You clenched your teeth. “But—”

“Houses don’t mingle, sweetie,” she said. “I’m sure you understand.”

You felt your patience fracture, felt your face flush. You couldn’t tell if it was from rage or shame. The wand in your pocket felt heavier than it had moments ago. 

Druella was still staring up at you, just daring you to—

To do what? Duel her? 

That wasn’t right. 

That wasn’t you.

“I understand perfectly well,” you said, shifting your attention from the green-eyed monster to Draco. You clasped your hands, taking a step backwards. “I need to speak with you later, _Granger._ It’s important.”

Draco nodded slowly. “Of course. I’ll find you.” Then, as if it was a last-minute thought, he added, “Enjoy your lunch, angel face.”

Druella’s nostrils flared.

Draco smiled knowingly at his plate.

It took everything you had not to laugh with satisfaction as you walked away to take your seat with Mari and Lizzy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It's been a really, really long time since I've updated. How unforgivable. Please blame my English teacher, she makes me never want to write again. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos brighten my day. I love you all.
> 
> So much has happened recently. Happy Inauguration to Joe Biden and the wonderful Kamala Harris. (Coming from a Canadian who couldn't be happier to see a new administration in the Whitehouse)
> 
> There are COVID vaccines! Yay! Hopefully, the world will return to some sort of normalcy before the year is up.
> 
> Sending virtual hugs, 
> 
> Molly


End file.
